


Just a Scratch

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Doctor John, Gen, Scrape with death, alternate: The Poison Giant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: Sherlock neglected to tell John that the suspect's blow darts contained poison. John did not duck in time and gets scratched by the blow dart. Now he has to put his life in Sherlock's hands and hope that the detective listened to John's lectures on emergency medicine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago, I don't even remember when, there was a prompt in the LJ community watsons_woes. It read, "’Tis But a Scratch: We’re called Watson's Woes, kids... Have Watson choose to hide something bad from Holmes, or to minimize it, for whatever reason; it may or may not end well."
> 
> This is what I came up with for that prompt.

“John?”

“Yeah.” John swatted at his friend like he would swat at an irritating fly buzzing around his head. And why was his head buzzing? He wiped the sweat from his brow. All this from running around after a suspect. He felt sick. _Must be the curry I had last..._ His thought trailed off when he couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. _Low blood sugar then. Okay. No wonder I feel dizzy._

“John!”

“Oh sod it, Sherlock. What do you want?”

“Did he hit you?”

“What?”

“Did he hit you!”

“Oh. No, I don't think so.” John checked his clothing, but there was no tear. He ran his fingers through his hair and winced slightly. “Huh. Yeah, here.” He brushed his hair away from his temple, revealing a little trickle of blood where the suspect's blowdart had grazed his head. He felt exhausted, as if his muscles were turning to lead. He definitely needed to eat something at the earliest opportunity if he wanted to keep up with Sherlock. 

“John, you idiot! I told you to duck!” John wondered why Sherlock sounded so panicky. Was there something he'd been missing?

“And I did. Come off it, Sherlock, it's just a scratch. Could be worse.” He attempted a grin. “I've been trained to avoid bullets, not blowdarts.” He felt his exhaustion deepen and thought that if they were stopping anyway, he might as well sit down. 

He was surprised when his body decided to become uncooperative and instead of sitting down, he started to topple over. He felt Sherlock catch him and lower him to the ground, but he seemed to be unable to move his arms. This was wrong. This was very wrong. 

Sherlock was shaking him. “John! Think! The patient is poisoned with curare, what do you do! What do I do?!”

The realization hit John like a punch in the gut. Their suspect had been shooting _poisoned_ blowdarts. And of _course_ Sherlock had neglected to mention this fact before. Soon, John's voluntary muscles would be completely paralysed – including his lungs. No wonder Sherlock was panicking. 

Struggling against the paralysis, John tried to get the words out that would save his life. “Keep... breathing... til... wears off...” Another thought occurred to him. “Close...” Too late. He could only hope that Sherlock would understand and close his eyes, or he might get an eye infection in the bargain. 

Luckily, Sherlock understood and gently brushed down John's eyelids. The look of despair and determination on Sherlock's face was the last thing John saw as he started to choke. He felt his head being tipped back, and then Sherlock's hands pinched his nose shut and he started to breathe for him. John was relieved. It was going to be all right.

The next minutes were the strangest of John's life. He could feel everything – the gritty rooftop under his hands, a sharp piece of gravel between his shoulderblades, the frantic beating of his heart, Sherlock's lips on his, his lungs inflating as his friend gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He heard the traffic below them, heard Sherlock's breathing, smelled Sherlock's aftershave and sweat, but he was completely immobilised.

Of course John knew the term “locked-in syndrome”, but now he was getting first-hand experience of what it was like to be aware without being able to move. To stave off an incipient panic, he tried to remember everything he knew about curare poisoning, especially duration, factoring in that he'd only been grazed by the poison dart and not hit directly. It could be anything between fifteen minutes and a couple of hours, though he hoped it was not as long. He also hoped that sooner or later Sherlock would call an ambulance; after all, he would probably survive if Sherlock skipped every other breath to talk to the emergency services. 

But Sherlock did no such thing. Instead, he kept a steady rhythm going – two deep breaths, inbreath – breathe into John's lungs – two deep breaths, a rhythm that would ensure John was getting enough oxygen while Sherlock himself would not be hyperventilating. The hand Sherlock wasn't using to pinch John's nose held John's throat, checking his pulse. John felt a weird sense of pride. It seemed that the lectures he had intermittently delivered to Sherlock had been listened to after all. He may have been unable to move a muscle, but he felt safe with his life in Sherlock's hands. 

After what seemed to be an interminable time, but was probably closer to thirty minutes, John felt his eyelids flutter and his fingers twitch, and his lungs started to resist the breath Sherlock was giving him. He forced his eyes open, and tried to take a breath. It worked. Breathing on his own seemed like a minor victory, and when Sherlock put his mouth back on John's, John was able to raise a shaking hand. He had indended to push Sherlock away, but there was as yet no strength to his muscles, and he only managed to let his hand flop against Sherlock's shoulder. He might as well have have hit the man.

Sherlock sat back electrified, looking searchingly into John's eyes, assessing the state of his friend. “John?” 

John took a deep breath and started coughing. “Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah.” He tried to sit up, but still felt weak as a kitten. Immediately Sherlock was there, helping his recalcitrant body into a sitting position. John was glad to be rid of the sharp stone at his back, but even gladder to be able to move again. To still be alive.

Then he felt it, and groaned. Immediately Sherlock looked concerned and afraid again. “What is it? John? What's wrong?”

John scrunched up his face. “It's ok, Sherlock, it's just... aah... paraesthesia... will be gone in a minute but damn!” The pins and needles feeling coursing all over his body as his nerves and muscles fired again was annoying, but a small price to pay, all things considered. Still, he needed to move to get rid of the ants crawling inside his body. “Sherlock, I've got to stand up.”

“All right, then, sleeping beauty, up you come.” Sherlock helped John to his feet, but instead of being able to stand unassisted just yet, John fell forward. Sherlock caught him in what from any other person John would call a hug, and John decided to hug Sherlock back. “Does that make you Prince Charming ?” he giggled. 

“Prince?” Sherlock said, “No. Charming?” He trailed off, and John supplied, “When you want to be. Seriously, Sherlock, thank you. You saved my life.”

Sherlock scoffed, still holding on to John. “You should have ducked.”

John was too happy to have come out of that scrape with death none the worse for wear to get really annoyed at the reminder. “Yeah, and you should have mentioned the poison in those blowdarts.”

There was an agreeing hum from Sherlock. “An omission. It will not happen again. How do you feel? Any lasting effects?”

John considered. “I may get a headache, but nothing that can't be helped with an ibuprophene or two.” He sighed, and reluctantly let go of Sherlock. “I could murder a cup of tea though.”

Sherlock brushed down his coat and smiled at John. “Let's get you home then. I think for once, Lestrade and his people can track down the suspect. I will let them know to expect the curare blowdarts.”

“Yeah, you better”, John laughed as they made their way down the stairs and home to 221b.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did research curare poisoning for this fic. "I'm not a murderer, Sir, I'm a writer!"


End file.
